


Human Heat

by Breadalby



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Imaginary!Sex, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breadalby/pseuds/Breadalby
Summary: He earnestly hopes that Rick is okay, wants him to come home for Rick’s sake, and for the sake of his mom and Summer and whatever semblance of family they have, but there’s another part. A sick, dark part that feels something he is too ashamed to name. But here, in the dark, alone, he lets himself give in to it.





	

Morty cradles the portal gun in his palms, fingers twitching: half of him wants to throw it off the roof or crush it beneath his foot. He’s torn up inside about how goddamn close he is to saving Rick, if only he wasn’t such an idiot. 

The portal gun had been tucked into the back of his closet in a box labeled “porn flicks”. Morty wonders if the Federation had found it when they ransacked the house, chattered and cackled in their alien language before leaving it behind as a cruel joke. 

The problem was that Morty didn’t have a fucking clue how to use the thing. He’d seen Rick do it, had vague notions about setting coordinates and neural transmissions, but the one time he’d used the gun before, he’d nearly ended up dead, saved only because Birdperson was in the right place at the right time. He didn’t know any coordinates, didn’t know how to get coordinates to anyone or anywhere that could help him; Birdperson was gone. Squanchy was gone. Morty was afraid that if he used the gun, he’d walk out into the vacuum of space or some inhospitable acid planet. So he was stuck here, using the gun only to portal to the roof of his house where he sat and stared at the night sky, feeling like a total fucking chump. And even that had been treacherous. 

Morty had looked up the coordinates to his house on Google Earth and carefully dialed them in on the portal gun. When he’d input the last number the gun emitted a low, electrical hum that grew louder the harder Morty concentrated. He thought of Rick, his room that reeked of booze and motor oil, the camping bed Morty had crawled into on too many nights since Rick’s departure. He thought of the garage and draping blankets over Rick’s hunched form, passed out at his workbench. 

And then he was stepping through his bedroom wall, out into -- 

Nothing. He was too surprised to scream as he fell several feet, landing hard on his side. He laid there for a minute, shocked and hurt, before he burst out laughing. 

Now, he gingerly lays the portal gun at his side and flops onto his back, driving the heels of his palms into his brow bone. Part of his frustration isn’t altruistic. Sure, he earnestly hopes that Rick is okay, wants him to come home for Rick’s sake, and for the sake of his mom and Summer and whatever semblance of family they have, but there’s another part. A sick, dark part that feels something he is too ashamed to name. When he thinks about it, it curls low in the pit of his stomach and grips him like a vice so that he’s seized with the urge to vomit: the scale in his parents’ bathroom tells him he’s lost 11 pounds since Rick left.

But here, in the dark, alone, he lets himself give in to it. 

“Rick…” He says it barely above a whisper, eyes closed, one hand slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans to cup himself. He squeezes gently, runs his thumb in circles over the shaft, then draws his hand back to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent is musty, like sweat and piss and old laundry detergent, but he pretends this is what Rick would smell like with Morty’s mouth around his cock, his nose buried in Rick’s pubes, and he groans.

“W-what-whadddya need, baby?” 

Morty squirms, unzips his jeans to alleviate the growing tightness. He’s gotten pretty good at this sick game of imagination. He can’t visualize Rick, but he can hear him perfectly, slurs, burps, and all. “You,” he says softly, pulling his half-flaccid erection from his boxers and curling his fist around it. 

“Wow, way to cut straight to the chase. No pretense, no foreplay. I feel a little cheap, M-Morty.”

Morty persists, pumping the base of his cock until it bobs thick and heavy against his thigh. “Talk to me, Rick.”

There’s a long silence, but then - “It looks like you don’t need any help, got hard aaallll on your own j-just thinking about Grandpa’s dick.”

Morty’s heart beats faster, and he’s hard as a rock. “I want to know what it’d smell like,” he admits, “how much I could take…” 

“You’d choke on just the head, Morty, I’ve got a dick like a fucking pint glass.”

The image sears on his brain - him, gagging and watery eyed with his mouth wrapped around Rick, saliva dripping down his chin and Rick making wordless noises of encouragement, fingers threaded through Morty’s hair. “P-please, yeah, keep going.” It’s a hot night in the middle of July, the air still but for the sound of Morty’s ragged breathing and the wet squelch of skin on skin. Perspiration slicks his palm and makes his jeans stick to his legs. 

“Jesus, you’re soaking, kid.”

“Yeah,” Morty pants, feverishly shoving down his jeans and kicking them away. He dimly thinks he hears the sound of them landing on the lawn below. 

“I bet my dick would slip right in.” His imaginary Rick sounds hungry for it, his voice husky and urgent in a way that Morty’s never heard in reality. 

“J-jeez, Rick, yes.” The middle finger of Morty’s left hand trails low between his thighs, presses unceremoniously into the tightness of his ass. It burns in a way that he craves, needs, makes him ache to know what the stretch of Rick would’ve felt like buried inside of him. 

“I miss you,” Morty whispers, eyes squeezed shut against the sting of sweat and tears.

Rick scoffs. “C’mon, Morty, you’ve got an opportunity here and you're gonna waste it bein’ - being fucking _mawkish_?”

“No,” Morty breathes, shakes his head, stroking himself faster. His thighs tremble with the effort of keeping his hips off the ground, his heels pushed into the shingles. “I need - I need -”

“My cock stuffing your ass?” 

“Y-yeah, yeah.” He curls the finger inside of him until it hurts, desperately pressing where he thinks the internet tells him his prostate should be, but there are no electric sparks, no mind-melting pleasure, just a frustrating emptiness. A whine escapes him and he pushes in a second finger, a third. It hurts enough that for a second he thinks he can feel blood wetting his fingers until he realizes it’s more likely the sweat dripping down his ass. 

His cock pulses with the pain, pumping slick pre-cum onto Morty’s hand. This is more what he imagines Rick fucking him would be like; tight and sharply, agonizingly uncomfortable, but also -- “So, s-so, good.”

“You like that, baby?” Rick asks in a murmur, and it sends goosebumps racing across his skin because Morty can almost feel Rick’s hot breath against his ear.

Morty moans. His balls are drawn up tight, ready to burst. "Fuck, yes, Rick --"

“Because this is fucked up, Morty, real depraved.” Rick’s voice has an edge now, jarring Morty’s attention. 

He's wracked by uncontrollable shudders from head to toe - he is _so close_ , his dick swollen red and leaking, his dry fingers fucking himself furiously - but he can’t shake the disgust in Rick’s tone. His hand stutters around his cock. Suddenly, he's aware that the edge of a shingle has scraped his neck raw, that the arm fingering himself is painfully contorted, and that he is completely and irrevocably screwed up. 

“Shit!” He shouts, smacking his head against the roof. Rick has no response. 

He lays there as his breathing slows, until his erection goes limp and his sweat feels cold against his skin. The sky above him is dark and alight with stars, and he wonders if any of them is where Rick is - if he’s even in this galaxy. He pretends that he isn’t sniffling or swallowing down the sobs rising in his throat. 

“P-pretty sappy, Morty, pretty pathetic.”

“Shut up, Rick.”


End file.
